


Muses

by likeamadonna



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 06:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5817460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeamadonna/pseuds/likeamadonna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bono and the Edge need money, and they get it the only way they know how: by posing for an art class. Baby U2 era, just a fluffy thing. Slash lite, Edge POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muses

**Author's Note:**

> Back in the glorious olden days of Livejournal's U2 slash community, i.e. 2002, a few of us decided to challenge ourselves by answering this silly-but-has-potential writing prompt: B/E nude modeling. It also had to contain the line, "Some people have no shame." We all wrote single-chapter ficlets and posted them on the same night at the same time. This one is mine. 
> 
> I'm going to be moving as many of my stories as I can over here to AO3 because loveisblindness.net seems to be evaporating today, and let's face it, Livejournal is a pain in the ass. Thanks *very much* to the thoughtful, kind, and possibly psychic ChooseToLive for saving my most popular ones for me/you/us a few weeks ago. 
> 
> This is my shortest LJ story, so it's easiest to post (I edited it a bit). Also, I don't think anyone knew this existed, so maybe it will be new to some of you. :)
> 
> Other things: I don’t know if they have art classes at Trinity College. Let’s say they do, all right? Are there birch trees in Dublin? There are in my Dublin. I realize that the Molly Malone statue was installed in 1988. But I just had to include it. The girls in the art class were loosely based on the writers involved in the challenge, including me. But don't worry, this is a Mary Sue-free zone.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and if anyone has my story Monarch handy, please let me know!

I won’t look at you. I won’t even think about looking at you. I know what’s going to happen if I do, and this is a respectable college. I do not wish to make a scene. Let’s just get out of here. Quickly.

The tempo of our footfalls hitting the polished marble floor increases with each step. An explosion of laughter is building inside each of us and we are suppressing it heroically, like two children sharing a joke in church. But the longer it stays locked up, the more outrageously hilarious it becomes. As I push the pull-only door, we accidentally make eye contact and burst into laughter. “Run!” you exclaim, grabbing my hand and dragging me behind you. We dash across the lawn and duck beneath the campanile, which I’ve always thought needed to be at least thirty feet taller. We regard each other breathlessly, our mouths wide open, our minds struggling to comprehend the last two hours. Before either of us can speak, the bells begin to ring and we jump, nerves frazzled.

“Hide!” I shout above the din. We dart down the sidewalk, through the main entrance of Trinity College, and onto Grafton Street. Oblivious pedestrians clog the lane, and I follow as you deftly weave between them, pausing at the statue of Molly Malone. Puckishly, you stand behind her, kissing her bronze cheek and leering at her decolletage. You sing, “Crying COCKles and MUSSELs alive, alive o!” thrusting and flexing during the appropriate words before dissolving into giggles.

“Come on, B,” I say, a hand hiding what has to be one of my goofier smiles. We resume our flight to someplace, anyplace where we can be quite certain that no art students will congregate. The crowd begins to thin as we approach St. Stephen’s Green, and a silky mist slips out of the pearl-like sky. We run for the shelter of the bandstand, clamoring down the sidewalk like twin autumn leaves in the wind, shrieking with incoherent laughter, both of us quite out of breath.

We continue laughing for at least one whole minute, until you are crying and I am literally on my knees. “I feel like such a whore!” you wail melodramatically, throwing an arm around my shoulders. We calm down and sit on the floor of the bandstand, our backs leaning against the enclosure.

“Musicians by night, boy prostitutes by day,” I quip, and you topple over, your upper body collapsing into my lap.

“Oh Reg, that’s perfect. I must write it down. Do you have paper, anything at all?”

“A person would think you might have paper occasionally, Mr. Official Lyricist.” I investigate several pockets. Nothing. I look out at the trees. Birch trees. I lift and arrange you into a normal seated position and stand. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m getting you some paper.” I exit the bandstand and walk across the lawn. A gentle breeze shakes the leaves of virtually every tree I pass. Accumulated droplets pounce on me as I approach one of the birch trees and peel a small section of translucent white bark off its trunk. It is the consistency of tissue paper, maybe a bit slicker, and peppered with a few black specks. Waxed paper, that’s more like it. I hold it close to my chest to protect it from the…all right, it’s really raining now…and hurry back to the bandstand.

“You are a genius,” you say, taking the “paper” and my pen. Using your upper thigh as a desk, you write the sentence and look at me dotingly. “No wonder those girls in the front row made you look smarter than me.” You blow on the ink and place the scrap in the breast pocket of your shirt, where it will be forgotten and left to disintegrate in the wash. All part of your inimitable creative process.

“I shouldn’t have to say it, but I will: no one is going to find out about this, will they, Bono?”

You retrieve our salary from your back pocket. “How else are we going to explain your new guitar? With this, we should have more than enough money now. Posing nude for an art class is surprisingly lucrative, isn’t it? Hey, this is paper…” I take the cash and count it. You’re right. We have enough.

“Uh, we could say we were doing…odd jobs.”

“It would be pretty hard to top this job in terms of oddness,” you laugh. “I saw you lusting after that guitar two weeks ago,” you continue. “I was gonna do it alone, you know.” I pat your left knee fondly. You would have. “But the professor wanted two people, and I didn’t think I could pose with a stranger. There’s no way Larry would have helped me. Adam probably would but, uh, no.”

“I wonder why...” I say, knowing why.

“I mean, when you’re posing nude the last thing you want is for people to be making comparisons,” you say as I chuckle. “So I said you’d be there too.”

“I still can’t believe we did that.”

“My reasoning was that if you really wanted a new guitar, you should be willing to make certain sacrifices. And by the time I built up enough courage to actually tell you, it was too late for us to back out.”

“I’m just glad it’s over. This had all the hallmarks of a true wrist-slitter.”

You pat your jacket in what appears to be an attempt to locate a pack of cigarettes. You grin and retrieve the remnants of a roast beef sandwich instead. You didn’t finish it at lunch because you “didn’t want to look even more bloated” as you posed beside me. “Yes, it was indeed an act of enormous personal courage on your part, yet another character builder for you courtesy of Bono.”

“I appreciate that, B.” You graciously offer me some of your sandwich but I decline. The heels of your shoes tap against the concrete in an attempt to release some of your pent up energy.

“I thought you did a great job, Reg,” you say with a mouth full of food, using the sandwich as a gesturing tool. “You were an absolute goddamn statue. It was nearly impossible for me to sit still for two hours. And in silence, no less—I had all these wry, engaging observations to make.”

“I’m sure you did…that couch underachieved in a big way.”

“Ugh… appalling pilly tweed.”

“You at least had the armrest, B. I was forced to sit in the middle, slumping, with my elbows on my knees. Meanwhile, you got to lean back in your…philosopher king pose.” I sit back and mimic your casual, pseudo-intellectual slouch.

“And we were sitting, you know, this close to each other.” You slide next to me until our legs touch. I could point out that our bodies never came in direct contact with each other. But I don’t. “He wanted the students to get us both on the same sheet of paper, that’s why. Yep. Character study of two mates, joined at the hip.”

“Naked.”

“Yeah. Just another day,” you sigh. I’ve seen that shade of blue a million times in my life: logos on milk cartons, broken glass on the sidewalk, a special blanket I had as a small child, the cover of a John Coltrane record…but whenever I look into your eyes, that particular blue lives and breathes.

“It was like being on stage—there was even a platform for us. And when we took off our robes and he turned on the tungsten light…that pregnant pause…” I trail off and hand the conversational baton to you.

“Yes, that delicious eight count where they did nothing except study us…wow. Those girls in the front took, like, a twenty-four count. They were the advanced students, I could tell. And then there was that beautiful thing they all did with their hands.” You lift yours to demonstrate. “Some of them had pencils, and they held them vertically, then horizontally—not sure what that was about. That pretty tomboy held out a finger and traced you in midair. The one with the lips…she sort of trapped my head between her thumb and index finger and placed it on the paper, then my shoulders and arms, then the rest of me. They were lovely to watch; it was as if each of them had his or her own artistic sign language.”

“You weren’t supposed to be watching them. The professor told us to find some blank spot on the wall and just stare at it. Very Zen.”

“I am a performer, Reg. I need to connect with my audience. Come on, you looked at them just as much as I did if not more.”

“You’re probably right. I tried not to, but it was so boring.” You beam at the top of my head. “What?”

“The students were happy we were there,” you say, plucking a leaf from my damp hair and putting it in your pocket. “I saw a couple of them look at me and smile at each other as they set up their supplies.”

“You think?”

“Well, did you see those drawings in the hallway? Shriveled old women, lumpy middle-aged men, obese—I couldn’t really tell if that was a man or a woman. Two not unfit boys their own age? It must have constituted a refreshing change of pace.” You chuckle, satisfied with your airtight case. “They looked at me first but most of their eyes settled on you.”

“Let’s face it, Bono, stick figures are easy to draw.”

“Hey, that’s my friend Edge you’re talking about. You know what two words entered my mind when I saw you naked today?”

Emaciated refugee? Atrophied weakling? “Go ahead.”

“Rampant. Pulchritude.”

“Oh, you probably just read that somewhere and have been waiting for an excuse to use it.” In the distance, I can hear car tires on wet pavement, hissing like…zippers…coming down, revealing pale skin. Not even an hour ago we were sitting beside each other, naked.

“Yes, but it’s true. They were mesmerized by you.” Mesmerized by the kind of person who signals at a vacant intersection, someone who will wait patiently for a traffic light to change at three o’clock in the morning when no one is around to care. I truly don’t see what the appeal is. You take my hand and play with my fingernails. Raindrops slap against the umbrella-like roof of the bandstand, and we turn to peer between the slits in the railing and watch the downpour animate the surface of the lake behind us. “We’ll get your guitar after this dies down, Edge,” you whisper.

“It was so quiet in there. I could hear your stomach once or twice, B. That and the girl by the wall.”

“The sort of brash one? She looked as if she wanted to eat me alive, Edge. It sounded like she was using charcoal, and she stood when she worked, making all those slashy, predatory strokes.”

“But did you see it? It was rough, but she really conveyed a darkness, a maleness that the rest of them didn’t.”

“She finished early and I think she spent the rest of the class drawing cartoons or something.”

I organize the bills so they are in order and all facing the same direction. James Joyce smiles up at me. “Lips seemed to think we were highly amusing,” I say. “Her eyes kept shifting back and forth as if she heard voices; did you see that? She added all kinds of strange details with different supplies, and she even borrowed some paint from that pixie next to her.”

“The watercolorist who made us look like we were made of opals? She smelled so good. I wanted to buy her painting, but that would have sent us back to square one financially.” The rain has suddenly become indecisive, vacillating between cloudburst and vapor. I decide that it must be difficult to suspend pigment in water then attempt to control it.

“And the tomboy was burning a hole in my face with this…really intense gaze,” I say, touching my cheekbone. “It was as if she wanted to pick my brain, read my mind or something. All she used was a pen. Her work was very precise and shrewd, and towards the end it looked like she was adding text.”

“Well, she was the one who asked the professor to give us some instructions.”

“Now that was interesting. Did you hear the brash one laugh when he said it? ‘Boys, I want you to imagine someone you love. Now imagine that person doing something you also love.’ What was so funny about that?”

You pat my forearm patronizingly. “You’re just as pure as the driven snow, aren’t you, Reg?”

“I guess the idea was to put a thoughtful expression on our faces and add a slight psychological element to their pictures.”

“I decided to mess with tomboy’s mind,” you cackle. “I imagined my father masturbating. Kittens drinking vodka. Things like that.” I look at you in disbelief and we double over with laughter. You tousle my hair, as if it could be more disheveled. I decide to tell you.

“You know what I thought about? You. Playing a guitar.”

“Ahh, Reg.” You exhale. I find myself thinking about you playing a guitar again, and you touch my chin, tilting my face to yours. You place your hand over your heart and affectionately kiss my cheek. “Look at that face. No wonder I love you so much.” We sit quietly for a while and watch a few sparrows hop and peck near our feet. All of a sudden, the birds scatter.

An outbreak of sugary giggles startles us as two Japanese tourists, adorable teenage girls, enter the bandstand, shaking their umbrellas. “Oh! Sorry, we didn’t see you here!” one of them says politely as the other shyly averts her eyes. They quickly turn to leave, fumbling with a map.

“Are you lost, my darlings?” you ask, standing.

They smile. “Yes.” says the spokesgirl. “We are lost!”

“What would you like to see?” you say slowly, giving both girls equal attention. They beam, bathed in your golden glow. The non-speaking girl opens a guidebook, pointing to a reproduction of the illuminated, spiraling Greek letters XRI, an ancient abbreviation for Christ.

“Uh, Reg?” you flounder. I join you.

“The Book of Kells?” I ask. They nod. “Trinity College,” I continue, pointing northwest. “Grafton Street?” A map is thrust into my hands and I trace the simple route.

“Thank you!" the girls say. One has a camera and takes a quick photo of us before they scurry away. Charmed, we watch them disappear, two fluorescent specks in an ocean of gray. I return to my station on the floor. You, however, have decided it’s time to spin around.

“Wanna tell me why you’re doing that, B?”

“As God is my witness, I will never again take for granted my ability to move about!” you proclaim, stretching and posing.

The events of the afternoon come rushing back, and I begin to laugh. “Oh, there was one point in the class where I really needed to scratch my arm, but I didn’t want to break the pose,” I say. You return to me and, still standing, casually embrace a supporting column. You gaze into the middle distance and your right leg lifts as if you were an actress being kissed. I shrug it off. “I tried to focus all my energy into making it stop. It worked.”

You look down at me with a raised eyebrow. “Is that how you control your other physical reactions?” An elderly couple sharing an umbrella walks past the bandstand. “Good afternoon, sir, ma’am.” You wave at them and the old woman smiles and winks.

“Mind over matter, B. Besides, it was too cold in there to get…you know.”

“You were cold? I was fine…but when you experience a minor sexual buzz your body temperature rises. You should try it sometime.” You sit beside me again—observing my personal space has never been one of your top priorities. You stretch and emit a seemingly genuine yawn, and one arm settles around my shoulders. Oldest, lamest trick in the book. Even I know it. “Are you cold now, by the way?” Your body feels like the sun-warmed interior of a parked car on a cool day.

“No.” I decide to change the subject and try to convince the back of my neck not to luxuriate against your arm. “It was funny when you sneezed, with that screaming thing you do. People applauded.”

“I wasn’t about to stifle it like Adam does. That’s just an open invitation to brain damage. Lips blushed when I sneezed; I wonder what that was about.”

“I like to sneeze.”

You watch a tiny spider descend on a web suspended between us. The nimble fingers of your free hand pinch the web and direct the spider to an open area. Your attention returns to me, and you become reflective. “We’ve been joking about it, but you know what, Edge? I don’t feel the least bit embarrassed about what we did today. I felt…sort of noble. It was a pleasure to inspire their art and witness their camaraderie. Those girls were so different, yet they were obviously fans of each other’s work.”

“I know. It was humbling…that they would want to look at us with those eyes…eyes trained to find beauty in everything.”

“And they were able to make art based on impressions and assumptions, without even knowing us. Without even knowing our names. And then there was that mild erotic component that nobody ever acknowledged.” You twist a strand of my hair around your finger.

I look down. “But I never felt like I was an object in there. I didn’t feel used. If anything, I felt appreciated…a kind of love. Now I know what it feels like to be a muse.”

You lean over and your twinkling eyes smile at mine as you whisper, “Who’s to say that you haven’t been one already?” I notice a tiny black smudge on your neck. Charcoal? I give in to the urge to lick my finger and rub it out. You would have done the same for me. You wink.

“Still, I would have felt more comfortable if I had my guitar with me.”

“You don’t know how lovely you are.” Your voice becomes conspiratorial. “During the break I heard one of them coo to another, ‘You made him look like a Schiele; isn’t he simply divine?’”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Oh, it’s good. And she was right.” I absently rub my right shoulder, which is surprisingly sore after an afternoon of sitting on a couch. You turn my body, reach beneath my coat and under my shirt, and take over. My head falls back when you find the right place. “Better, love?” I nod slowly.

“When I get home I want to draw,” I say.

“So do I. You’re such a Renaissance man, Reg. So smart, so good at everything you try. I bet you can write backwards, too.” The rain has stopped, but the park remains virtually deserted.

“Bono…about the guitar. Thanks.”

Your hands stop their work and describe elusive, fragile lines on my back. You whisper in my ear, “I was naked for you today, and I’d do it again. I’d like to think that you would do the same for me.”

I pause for a moment. “Well. I would.”

“Good,” you announce brightly, removing your hand and straightening my shirt and coat. “We can buy some art supplies with the leftover money, can’t we? Those girls made me jealous. I want to draw you. And you want to draw me too, don’t you, Edge?”

“Yes.”

“I want to draw your face first.” Your fingers delicately trace my features. “These angles, these planes, your eyes…I’d kill to have your nose. I think that’s where we should start, with portraits, and then maybe one night you could take your shirt off. I’d be very interested to see how you would draw me. We could work up to being naked slowly…once we’re on tour and, you know, once we have some privacy…it would be sort of like falling in love.” You sigh and run a hand up my leg.

“Some people have no shame,” I murmur.

I look into your eyes again, one sly and the other disarmingly innocent. They close as your clever face approaches mine. Your skin smells like damp watercolor paper. You kiss my mouth, your top lip sly and your bottom lip disarmingly innocent. Soft and greedy, decadent and right. Four variations on a first kiss.

“I’m not ashamed of anything I do with you, Edge.”


End file.
